Portrait of a Program
by Moore12
Summary: A series of unconnected one-shots, all examining the programs of Tron and Tron Legacy. Essentially, each chapter will be about a different program and will examine their character and actions in depth. Please read A/N inside for info! Ram & Zuse/Castor up
1. Perfection: Clu 2

_**Perfection**_

_Clu 2_

"_I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business" – Michael J. Fox_

One simple objective: create the perfect system. It was the reason behind his creation, the reason behind his very existence. It was the motivation behind all of his actions. But it was more than that really. When he took the time to think about his sole objective, he always came to the same conclusion.

It was him.

.

The decision to defy his User—his creator—was far easier than he had anticipated it would be. Even though a small part of him balked at the idea that he should seek to overthrow the man who had created him, the man who had given him his one objective, it was hardly enough to make him reconsider his actions. It was right; he knew it was right.

If Flynn didn't want to stand by his side and finish what he himself had started, he had to be forcefully removed from his position of power.

Perfection wasn't for the faint of heart, for flesh and blood that couldn't possibly hope to comprehend it.

.

He saw such weakness in Flynn; he still, evidently, wanted to seek perfection even though he had been hiding from it ever since he became fascinated with the viruses he called ISOs. As soon as it was apparent that he was in the right—and the User in the wrong—he signaled for the attack. They couldn't—and wouldn't, he was certain—fail. Success was inevitable.

The coup was ultimately a mere formality when the User's weakness clouded his judgment and made him incapable of standing up for his own ideals. While the Black Guard surrounded Tron, he turned his attention to the real threat.

Catching up to the creator, he pushed him to the ground with ease. Only for a moment, he paused for reasons he couldn't fully comprehend. But then, he saw the fear in Flynn's eyes—fear of him, his own creation designed to carry out his own wishes—and it steeled him further. He readied himself to end the User's life and, to his own faint surprise, would have done it too if it hadn't been for Tron's well timed attack.

And, as he watched the "creator" flee, he decided he would make Tron pay.

He would not allow anybody—not even a program he had called a friend long ago—to stand in his way.

.

Looking out over the system that he had created from the wreckage, he wondered for the first time if it was truly perfect. After the purges—his greatest success in moving forward—he had been convinced that he was on the proper path. The system was running at its optimum potential. The ISOs were all but eliminated, leaving the programs to live knowing their system was secure. The traitor had been expelled from their midst. The games had been reinstated to weed out the weak, inefficient and outdated programs.

These were his accomplishments, his alone. He was achieving perfection in all things, something even the allegedly great creator failed to accomplish.

And, yet, something caused him to pause. Maybe it was the fact that Flynn was resisting—acting as if each move he made was taking him a step away from completing his objective. Maybe it was because a small part of him had its regrets; even though he easily brushed them off, telling himself all of the "sacrifices" were made in the name of perfection, they persisted.

That was when he had a thought born out of twisting the User's philosophy ever so slightly. What was it that Flynn had always said: that the Grid was more interconnected with the human world than anyone knew? That the two worlds existed intertwined with one another, each relying on each other in a kind of symbiotic relationship?

The revelation hit him instantly, chilling his processors and making him wonder for the first time if the objective was even possible to achieve. The system could only be excellent as long as the User world that dictated so much of its actions was left the imperfect mess it allegedly was.

"Change of plans, Jarvis," he said softy as he continued to look out over his system. "We need to draw Flynn out of hiding."

.

It was too simple, really. With Flynn's disc secured, all of his plans could finally be realized. The programs would no longer be trapped inside the computer; they would be free to traverse the world and would change everything about it in the process. As for him, he would see to it that the world would be made perfect, would be brought out of the darkness of the ignorance of a people that accepted and even cherished mediocrity.

He was so tantalizing close to the completion of his objective, to the fruition of all of his carefully laid plans. He was so close he didn't even stop to wonder what would become of him once his objective was completed.

And, as he walked out onto the podium to address his army, he knew it was time to change the world…for the better.

.

He couldn't comprehend what his User meant; even attempting to understand his assertion caused his CPU to balk in protest. He couldn't possibly be right, he told himself, the protest of his very functions enough to assure him that he was right to oppose his User to the bitter end. He couldn't allow him to thwart all of his plans when he was so very misguided, still chained to the altar of mediocrity because of his newfound fear of his initial quest.

"You couldn't understand because I didn't when I made you," Flynn yelled, his voice filled with such great pain it made him pause for a moment.

He couldn't process it but part of him just knew that his User was sorry for him. His CPU balked at the thought, but he continued to try to calculate why that would be, why he would feel sorry for a program he had once called his "best ever." Then, it hit him like an identity disc to the gut: he himself was deeply flawed and had been created as such…

He couldn't believe him, couldn't believe that everything he had ever done was because he had been flawed upon creation, incapable of understanding the truths of the Grid and the world. It couldn't be possible that perfection couldn't be realized, not when his objective was to strive for perfection and ultimately attain it.

His objective was him, and he would not accept what he knew was the truth.

.

And, as he dove toward the portal, he reminded himself never to settle for mere excellence, even if it cost him everything.

* * *

><p><em>AN: PLEASE READ: Hey everyone! Basically, this is going to be a series of one-shots exploring the different programs of Tron. I started with Clu 2 because I think he's a really compelling character, but I am going to write about all of them. All of the chapters will follow this format, and programs from Tron and Tron Legacy will be written about. Each will be a character analysis (inspired by the quote at the top) and each will attempt to delve deeper into all of your favorites. So enjoy! Also, please review: I'm working on another story right now and need to know if there's enough interest in this to continue. Enjoy and R&R! ~Moore12~ _


	2. Hope: Ram

_**Hope**_

_Ram _

"_Hope never abandons you; you abandon it" – George Weinberg_

With each cycle that passed, it became more and more difficult to hold on to a belief that was once strong, a belief that once guided all of his actions. With each program he derezzed in favor of his own life, he lost a little hope. At first, it all felt inconsequential, but, as more and more was chipped away, he began to lose his faith entirely.

As the cynical side of him began to take control, he had to wonder if he would be able to save himself after all.

.

Survival was far from certain, but survive he did. Holding onto scraps of what he had once been, he fought through each cycle, beating the odds through sheer will and cold calculation. A program like him—a mere actuary that hadn't been designed to fight—wasn't expected to last long, not in this dark place known for breaking stronger programs than him.

Staring blankly at the wall of the cell he was forced to call home, he had to ask himself for the first time what exactly he was fighting for.

.

After a particularly brutal light cycle match, he was thrust roughly into his cell. Teeth clenched in pain—the guards had shocked him numerous times when he dared to struggle, dared to sarcastically challenge them to a fight—he cursed the Users quietly under his breath. The reality of his situation was beginning to crush him; the fact he had seen two programs from his old system derezzed before his very eyes and narrowly escaped the same fate himself thrust a particularly painful question to the forefront of his thoughts.

He was just about to answer that question with a hesitant yes when the sound of movement from the cell next to his tore him from his thoughts. Sidling over to the force field connecting the cells, he saw a well-armored, perplexed looking program staring back at him.

"Don't tell me this is happening," the new program groaned in frustration a micro later, slamming a fist into the wall. "Don't tell me I'm on the Game Grid."

Because he was fairly afraid of the program—he wouldn't want to meet him in the games, that was for sure—he didn't respond right away. When he saw that the program was still staring at him, his gaze felt like it was enough to derezz him, he quipped, "Yeah, you're now a guest of the great MCP. Welcome to luxury living."

To his amazement, the new program just chuckled weakly and offered him a small smile; he, like all the others that came before him, was clearly in the process of resigning himself to his fate…a process, he knew from experience, he would never fully complete.

After a micro of rather awkward silence that had him convinced the new program wasn't interested in making friends—which was fine with him, all the friends he had ever made there had been derezzed anyway—he asked, "So, what's your name?"

It was the beginning of a friendship that would help to repair some of the damage the Game Grid had done…

.

It all started out as a relatively normal cycle. He watched bleakly as new programs were shepherded into the cells they never came back to, hoping they at least met a quick and painless deresolution. He fought and won as usual, irritating the "great" commander Sark in the process which was enough to restore some of the hope he had lost. And, in his darkest and most cynical moments, he was able to talk to Tron who, for awhile at least, matched his fervent belief…well, what was left of it at least.

But, as the cycles dragged on, even he grew jaded; despite his insistence that he was fighting for the Users, he knew there were cracks developing under what was merely a convincing façade. The games spare no one, he thought miserably as he stared at the too familiar wall. Not even a program designed to take down the MCP…

So where did that leave him?

.

There was something different about that program; he knew deep down in his very core that was the case, but he couldn't calculate why he felt the way he did. He had been programmed to determine the odds of future outcomes and that couldn't help him explain what was happening even if it was the driving force behind his improbable survival.

Prattling on about his functions in an attempt to disarm the new program, he watched him intently. He sure doesn't act like a program, he determined. And he doesn't talk like one either. Even though the new program—whose name was Flynn, he quickly learned—explained himself, he didn't fully believe him. There was something about his explanation that was lacking; he was clearly hiding something given his rather convenient excuse that he didn't remember anything.

Later, sitting in his cell waiting for the inevitable as usual, he slipped and told Tron there was something different about Flynn. While Tron just snickered—muttering something about how his CPU was malfunctioning again—he knew he was right even though he couldn't fully accept what was happening.

.

He wasn't exactly sure why he followed them, especially given their talk of taking on the MCP; he, being what he was, knew the odds they would survive the encounter was close to zero. He was free, and he knew he could only retain said freedom by removing himself from the company of Flynn and Tron. He knew he could most likely steal away unnoticed as his recapture probably wasn't Sark's priority; not with Flynn and Tron on the loose. But he didn't because something stopped him; something told him he was where he was supposed to be, had finally found what he was hoping he always would.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice the tanks turn the corner…and then there was an explosion and everything faded away.

.

Staring up at Flynn, his CPU grasped at fragments of memories, searching for an explanation as to why he was so different. Pain shot through all of his processors, and it was becoming harder and harder to hold on even though he wanted to more than anything. Finally—because he was so near the end anyway—he allowed himself to hope.

"Are you a User?" he managed to ask; even if it didn't make sense that he was there in the flesh, that's what he had to be; no other explanations were plausible.

When Flynn nodded in the affirmative, he beamed; he couldn't help it even though he was staring his deresolution in its menacing face. He had been right all along—had been right even though the guards mocked him, had been right even though it was hard for him to believe sometimes. The Users did exist and hadn't abandoned them after all.

Even though part of him understood the User couldn't save him, it was still comforting to know he was there and would save the system and other programs like him. That was what he had been fighting for all along, and he would do his bit by transferring his remaining energy into Flynn…It was all he could do…

.

And, as everything faded into eternal blackness, he realized he had been right not to abandon all hope.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hope you enjoyed the latest installment. Yes, I know it's a little longer but that's just because Ram's my favorite character and I wanted to do him justice. I've also written about him four times (shamless plug: I have three one-shots and one full length fanfic that feature him) so yeah...I kinda get carried away. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. And please review...I'm not convinced if I should continue this and also want to know who you want me to write about next. R&R and hope you liked it! ~Moore12~_


	3. Odds: Zuse&Castor

_**Odds **_

_Zuse/Castor_

"_Overconfidence - Before you attempt to beat the odds, be sure you could survive the odds beating you" – Larry Kersten_

In such a dangerous system, he believed it to be imperative to play every angle, to know the odds of every potential outcome. His survival hinged upon determining the best course of action in any situation, and he took great pride in the double life he managed to lead. It was an admittedly brilliant way to stay alive and play each side unwittingly against each other.

But it hadn't always been that way, and a tiny part of him regretted choosing to willingly live such a big lie.

.

Once, he had principles that guided his actions, beliefs that gave him inspiration. Once, he had fought for something actually worth fighting for, something that was bigger than just himself. Now, there was nothing left of those cycles. There was nothing left of the program who had risked his life to protect the ISOs, who had defied Clu by making his club a safe haven for the poor creatures during the purge.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, he had to admit. He had all of the same skills and many of the same desires. The only thing that had changed was who he was protecting…

Looking out over his city in a moment of relative quiet, he reminded himself that this was a change that had to be made.

.

His former self would have been truly interested in talk of resistance. His former self would have truly engaged the rebels, would have supported them and even vowed to fight with them (if necessary). Now, their talk of resistance seemed so…pointless really. He had learned the hard way that the way to stay alive—and, if lucky, get ahead—was to hide one's true intentions under a mask of submissiveness, of acceptance of the way things were.

You don't openly fight against Clu, he wanted to tell the hopelessly naïve programs. You make him trust you, and you parlay that trust into greater influence which you can then use against him…if you desire to, that is.

Offering an exaggerated yawn to tell the programs he wasn't interested in partaking in what they would soon find to be futile shenanigans, he replied, "Well, I'll talk to Zuse about it. He may offer you an audience…but do remember he is an exceptionally busy program."

Odds are I'll never see them again, he thought wryly as he watched the three programs leave, grumbling about him under their breaths. They just don't make them like they used to, do they?

.

He began to detach the names from the faces in his memories. It was easier and arguably better that way. Because, when he heard terrible news from the games or even the streets of a city robbed of its beauty by a tyrant, it didn't mean as much to him. The names were just that: names. Without an image attached to them, they were rendered meaningless to him, and he was able to survive without being plagued by survivor's guilt, without feeling each loss like an identity disc to the CPU.

Living in a sea of names—the names of those lost constantly cascading over him—he learned to lock his memories away and focus on more important things…namely, determining the path that would be most likely to keep him alive.

The odds, not the names, not even the programs themselves, were what mattered to him now.

.

The music was a welcomed distraction. Thumping wildly in the background, it helped him forget the past for awhile, escape what was and enter an alternate reality that was far better than what was real. In moments like this—with the music loudly playing and the club filled with (innocent) life—it was easy to forget about his fragile station in the system.

But he could never fully escape what his life had become…not even in the best of cycles…

Sitting down at the bar, a thin smile on her face, Gem tore him from his thoughts: "There was a User in the games today. I've heard he's the son of Flynn."

The siren was almost as good as him at keeping her emotions under control; he could hardly sense that she was excited and intrigued by this most recent development. Matching her indifference with a nonchalant sigh, he replied, "Well, now, Gem, it appears there's a new player in Clu's little game…"

He surprised himself; it was harder than he thought it would be to retain his usual mask. Even though he didn't believe in the Users anymore—no, he had learned that there was nothing particularly remarkable about them from watching Flynn run from his own creation—the prospect of a new one being on the Grid fascinated him…and, he realized, could help him.

As if sensing this change in him, Gem asked rather innocently, a wider smile creeping onto her face, "What are you going to do about it?"

"Isn't it obvious, dear?"

.

What was the old saying? That he would find the programs—or Users for that matter, he almost chuckled—who needed him? Not that it mattered now that he couldn't quite remember, not when he had calculated that the odds were good he could secure his long term safety—and, more importantly, influence. He would finally get what he wanted most of all: the control of the city itself. He held the key in his hand…the identity disc of the hopelessly pathetic (and old) Kevin Flynn, the User who was afraid of his own reflection…the User who wouldn't fight for the programs who had naively believed in him, leaving them to fend for themselves and slowly de-rezz one by one.

Admittedly, it had been too easy for him to betray the son of Flynn. He knew, deep down in his core, that the program he had been before would have never done such a thing, would have, instead, fought for the User. But…that didn't matter now. The disc ensured him of finally being able to grasp his dreams, and…well…it wasn't like anybody—important at least, he thought dryly—got hurt in the process.

Was he nervous? Hardly. He had what Clu wanted after all; he had played his little game and had, he figured, finally won. The odds were entirely in his favor; there was very little chance that the program obsessed with his crusade to find the disc would walk away just because of his rather grand demand. Offering Gem a flamboyant bow—still holding on fast to the disc because, well, you could never fully trust anyone—he exclaimed, "Well, darling, we have Clu now!"

.

And, as he watched the guards place the light grenades on the wall of his soon to be former hottest club in the city, he realized the odds had beaten him, destroying his entire being in the process.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hey all! Sorry it took so long to update this. I was busy working on my other Tron fic (shameless plug...check out "The Fourth") at the same time. And writing about Zuse/Castor was actually surprisingly difficult because you can take him in so many different directions. So...I hope you enjoy this. And please review, I love hearing what people think. ~Moore12~ _


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